


science vs. romance

by word_dissociation



Category: The Secret Saturdays
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, and a little bit of an enemies to friends to lovers speedrun at the very beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_dissociation/pseuds/word_dissociation
Summary: He feels angry and paranoid, and then vindicated once again in his paranoia, and-- some other feeling he’s butting up against, having a hard time identifying. The image of Epsilon’s face, features barely disturbed by the sanctimonious quirk of his mouth, his matching intonation, basically everything about him saying upfront to Beeman,I know what you think you know. But I’ll always know more.It evokes something in him, and not the blood-boiling indignance that it should. It should annoy him even more that he can’t quite place it.He decides to settle on intrigued, in the end.
Relationships: Arthur Beeman/Agent Epsilon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	science vs. romance

**Author's Note:**

> i know you probably saw that relationship tag and went '?????' but stay with me here.
> 
> obviously this has a lot of spoilers for season 2/the finale of the show but the show's been out for like 12 years now so. you know. this fic is also really headcanon and speculation heavy (those pre-and post-canon are extremely pre-and-post timeline of the show) about a number of things, including: stuff about the secret scientists, what epsilon's name was when he was in francis's place, kind of a little bit on him and francis's relationship (from his view), and just a lot of me very obviously and transparently thinking beeman's an interesting character, who is still definitely think deserved to get portal blasted. also i hc both beeman and epsilon as autistic: its not ""relevant"" to any of the plot ig i just think it provides a lot of perspective
> 
> i also wanna give it up to my buddy patrick, who's excellent bepsilon art which you can see here, and some of his own writing and analysis he shared with me is directly responsible for and referenced in this fic, especially the ending a lot of my interpretations of epsilon's character. thank you for being a genius patrick
> 
> title is taken from the song of the same name, by rilo kiley !
> 
> lastly, some content warnings, since i gave this the Teen Rating, im trying to list out all the one's i remember: minor mentions/descriptions of blood and injury, some (pretty tame) making out, discussion of the 47 people argost killed, the general unsavory + paranoia inducing crap that tends to come with espionage or whatever it is the graymen do, and also the ethical dilemmas that come with what epsilon's people do. also some cussing but, like, you know

The first time Beeman ever sees Epsilon, he’s at a work mixer of sorts, unsurprisingly hosted by the Saturdays at their HQ. Ever since their honeymoon they’ve been making more and more connections outside of old friends and fellow college alumni, and in a line of work that involves both pooling your resources and making sure nobody is supposed to know about it, networking’s something of an unspoken priority. Hence why he bothers to mix at all.

It also means he’s quick to pick up on an unfamiliar face, the moment he recognizes it. Or, fails to recognize it, technically.

“Who’s that?” He asks, interrupting whatever game of catch up Drew and Miranda are playing as he points to the stranger in glasses Doc is chatting with from across the room.

“That’s Epsilon,” Drew tells him. “Doc and I met him back before the wedding.”

Beeman makes a contemplative noise. “What’s his study?”

“He’s not a scientist,” Drew says. “He’s some kind of secret agent.”

“You’re joking.” Beeman looks him over again, heavy trench coat and muted greens, practically designed to have the eye slide off of. It’s actually counter-intuitive, Beeman thinks, how strongly his clothes and his posture communicate a sort of  _ Don’t mind me, I’m not here _ vibe. “Hm. Subtle.”

Drew snorts a laugh in agreement, but Miranda also scrutinizes him. “If he’s some kind of intelligence agent, is it really a good idea to have him here?”

“Doc agreed to keep an eye on him for the night,” Drew assauges. “Besides, we struck up a kind of agreement already. His People want our work to remain a secret as much as we do.”

“His “People”?” Beeman echos, incredulous.

Drew gives him a smile and shrugs. “Now you know as much about them as Doc and I do.”

Beeman doesn’t like it. Any part of it, but the lack of any concrete knowledge most of all. He figured it was only a matter of time before some kind of Men in Black types came sniffing around the lot of them, and he supposes despite the surface flippancy from the Saturdays it’s not a bad idea to have one of them in their midst, where they can keep an eye on him. It just makes his skin crawl to know somebody’s looking right back. In a weirdly vindicating kind of way.

Miranda and Drew get back to their conversation, but Beeman still keeps his eye on Epsilon as he passively absorbs whatever theory Doc is espousing to him, something complicated if the hand gestures he’s providing are anything to go by. At one point Epsilon turns his head minutely, and though his eyes are hidden by the lenses of his shades Beeman can tell he’s staring dead at him in return. And then he smiles; an expression that would be so plastic, if it clearly wasn’t so smug and self-assured.

Beeman decides then and there that he doesn’t like him.

* * *

Their next meeting-- their more true, formal one-- has Beeman reassessing, just a little.

He and the Saturdays are working together in Cincinnati, their interests and expertise converging due to reports of strange sounds, fluctuating power, and oh yeah, giant bugs, apparently. Beeman has reason to believe they’re Insectoids, especially compounded with the fact that a few hours before he and the Saturdays touch down, apparently a woman ended up in the middle of the road, entranced and clueless as to how she got there. He’s relieved when they go to talk to the woman without him, both so he can get some work done in authenticating without going around in circles arguing with Drew about how long it takes for a species to have made a home on Earth before it technically stops being alien and becomes more cryptozoological in nature, and because he’s never been particularly good at the whole… people… part that sometimes comes along with the job. Apparently he comes off as squirrely and intimidating.

The whole thing should be pretty cut and dry: determine whether the creatures are extra-terrestrial or inhabitants of Earth, and then to discern if they’re hostile in their intentions or not. Keeping the secret part of the science a secret shouldn’t be too hard at all-- everything’s pretty easy to explain away with simple, vague, yet logical explanations-- rallying against which would probably make even the most convinced sound crazy. Which is why it’s suspicious and, most of all,  _ annoying  _ when Epsilon is with the Saturdays when they return.

Beeman doesn’t give any time for false pleasantries. He leverages an accusatory finger in the agent’s direction. “Why is he here?”

“Dr. Beeman,” Epsilon greets, unperturbed.

“Oh, good,” Doc says. “You two already know each other. I guess that saves us time on introductions.”

“We haven’t formally met,” Epsilon admits. “How very fortunate Dr. Beeman is here with you both. His expertise will no doubt be indispensable.”

Beeman narrows his eyes. “Then I reiterate: why are  _ you  _ here?”

“Why else,” Epsilon says evenly. “But to help.”

Beeman doesn’t believe for a second that’s all there is to it, and is only vindicated when Epsilon’s presence ends up complicating things more than anything. What should be, from the information Doc and Drew relay about the woman found in the middle of the road, in combination with Beeman’s own readings from around the area, be a simply peaceful or exploratory fringe encounter between the visitors and inhabitants ends up turning into more of a game of hardball, and Beeman has his suspicions that it’s not unprovoked. Especially since Beeman notes after the last reign of fire they all seem more aimed at Jolly Green than himself, Doc, or Drew. It manages to split them up, Doc and Drew at each other’s sides as Beeman and Epsilon go sliding down on a broken-off chunk of turf, into a shallow ravine. Beeman ends up breaking his portable scanner when he comes down on it, just to really top off the night’s torment of him. The minute he gets to his bearings and back on his feet, he’s in Epsilon’s face.

“This is  _ your _ fault!” He indicates the crushed shell of his scanner, but really he means everything, both the events of the night and in a sort of cosmic sense.

Epsilon just barely puts any energy into looking slightly annoyed at him. “Apologies. How unfortunate. Hopefully it gives you future incentive not to get in my way.”

“Get in  _ your way _ ?!” Beeman feels the back of his neck run hot with anger. “It’s been escalation after escalation since you got here! I don’t know what it is you and your people think you’re doing or why, and I don’t  _ care _ , but you’re going to tell me everything I need to know to shut it down or I am gonna make you-- foot.”

Epsilon’s mask of annoyance breaks for a moment, browline raising slightly in what is for once, a rather frank expression of confusion, until he follows Beeman’s shifted line of vision. Down to his left foot, bent at an angle it’s definitely not meant to bend in. “Oh.” Epsilon sucks in a breath. “Interesting.”

Beeman regularly deflects any and all accusations thrown his way that he’s the most squeamish out of them all, because he is  _ not _ , he can handle blood and misshapen limbs and all other manner of things that result from unhappy accidents in the field just fine. He just hates when they’re right in front of him. Any paling at the sight of Epsilon’s dislocated foot is an involuntary response, completely at the fault of his automatic biology and not himself.

“I’ve heard dislocation doesn’t hurt until you look at it,” Epsilon is now looking at Beeman, and not his foot, face almost unnaturally calm despite the fact that he hasn’t made any change in his posture to alleviate his pain. “There may be some truth to that.”

Beeman almost asks him upfront what the hell he’s on about, when it occurs to him that this is, perhaps, Epsilon’s way of keeping him… calm? Comforting him? It only takes a split second to dismiss the idea as ridiculous.

“Sit down,” Beeman pushes on Epsilon’s shoulder to guide him along into the sitting position, kneeling in front of the offending injury once he’s on the ground. He can’t see any skin, between Epsilon’s crisp black pants and matching socks. He reaches out, and besides another small inhalation of air, Epsilon doesn’t react when he makes contact. “I’m gonna set it.”

There’s no use in being gentle or counting down, saying it outloud really is for his own benefit than for Epsilon to brace himself. In one fast motion he turns it back into place, thankfully without any disgusting snapping or crunching in accompaniment, which is a good sign that it isn’t broken. Epsilon doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t let his head fall back at the flash of pain, doesn’t bare his teeth against it. The only sign that Beeman can see that it hurt at all is the way his right fist is clenched, shaking slightly. His left remained completely still.

“This happen to you a lot?”

“Just, exercising mind over matter,” Epsilon’s voice is rough.

“And you’re welcome,” Beeman crosses his arms over his knees. “Feel like talking now that your boo-boo’s fixed?”

“Are you going to leave me here if I say no?”

“I just might,” Beeman says, but he doesn’t mean it. Even if he had a good chance of getting out and back up to surface level on his own, he wasn’t going to leave Epsilon in the bottom of a ditch like this.

“You’re the expert. Why don’t you formulate a theory.”

Beeman huffs, annoyed, but he does start to think out loud. “Insectoid encounters are usually peaceful. There’s speculation on them being telepathic, able to share emotions or awareness, but nothing concrete. Typically only interested in mammalian species… my guess is that our current visitors are explorers. Zoologists, more specifically. Lifting people out of bed, taking measurements, trying to track migration and behavior-- Doc and Drew know more about that sort of thing.”

Epsilon is silent for a moment. “You don’t seem very distrubed by the idea.”

“It’s not malicious. That woman didn’t have any trackers stuck under her skin, did she?” Epsilon shakes his head. “There you go. It’s definitely creepy, but by my guess, we probably don’t register as sentient down here. Yet.” He shoots a glare at Epsilon. “If nobody ruined any chances at first contact.”

“Nothing so indiscreet.”

He scoffs, and rises to his feet, moving to collect the parts of his scanner. Maybe he can salvage this and start undoing some of Epsilon’s People’s damage. “Besides, from their position? I’d probably do the same thing.”

“Just that interesting, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Epsilon makes a small noise, so soft Beeman almost doesn’t hear it, sly and amused, and infuriatingly he’s got a smile to match it. “Yes. I would have to agree.”

Beeman scowls, hair on the back of his neck standing up a little; he’s not yet used to people being able to throw his snark back in his face, disarm him like that, save for Miranda and Doc, both by being able to keep up or knowing exactly when not to engage with him. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, can you at least  _ try  _ not to make me want to crack your foot back out of place?”

Epsilon’s smile schools back into an impartial look, but he can still tell Epsilon is looking at him with-- with something. Smug amusement, at the knowledge that all of his threats are empty, maybe, or the fact that he knows that he’s managed to get under Beeman’s skin. That’s the only thing Beeman can reason. He tries his best to ignore Epsilon as he pops the scanner screen back into place. It fizzles back to life, in a sad imitation of its usual working order, but it’s enough for right now. He’s able to relay current information back to Doc and Drew, if a bit spotty, about where he and Epsilon are, Epsilon’s injury, and his people’s involvement in the night’s catastrophe. Epsilon remains almost eerily silent from his resting place, eyes boring into Beeman’s back, and yet he gets so caught up, later, walking the Saturdays through deactivating some kind of unknown field-generator, that he doesn’t register Epsilon having limped up behind him.

“If you can haul it to your airship, there’s a better chance of identifying it there,” He’s saying. “After you come get me. You know, no rush--”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Epsilon’s voice startles him, decidedly  _ not  _ to the point of jumping into the air like a scared cat.

“Why not?” Drew’s voice buzzes on the other end.

“Because it’s set to self-destruct within five minutes of deactivation,” Epsilon continues casually. “I estimate you have about four minutes and twenty-seven seconds to clear the area. That should put you outside of the blast radius.”

“What?!” He says in time with Drew, getting to his feet. “You couldn’t’ve mentioned that before?”

“And, Dr. Beeman, I would stay clear.”

Beeman doesn’t have time to retort to that, because in a moment there’s a shadow looming over him and he has to dodge out of the way of some kind of pod before it touches down to the ground. He watches Epsilon climb in, though still with a touch of a limp.

“A pleasure working with you,” He calls over the rising roar of the pod’s engine. Beeman can see that cool, composed smile tug at the corners of his mouth again. “Until next time.”

He watches Epsilon take off, left to stew as he waits for the Saturdays to come trace his spotty signal and fish him out. His first reaction is anger, naturally, almost (only  _ almost _ ) mad enough to throw his scanner on the ground and destroy it in earnest. But the anger ebbs out, perhaps faster than it reasonably should, and he’s left mulling over what it is exactly that just happened. He hates to think or admit he’s been played, outsmarted in any capacity, but it’s with begrudging objectiveness he must admit Epsilon’s off to report another job well done, and he’s the one stuck in a ditch. If he had an escape route from the beginning, it doesn’t make sense that he’d just sit around, waiting for a rescue, while Doc and Drew undermine his People’s efforts.

Unless the whole thing was a set up from the beginning, Beeman realizes.

To do what? Draw him, specifically, out? Even Beeman’s not so paranoid and full of himself to entertain that too seriously. And yet any other logical explanation he can muddle through crumbles like sand the longer he thinks himself into circles. He guesses it makes sense that the reigning men in black wannabes would want to keep a close eye on a ufologist especially.

He feels angry and paranoid, and then vindicated once again in his paranoia, and-- some other feeling he’s butting up against, having a hard time identifying. The image of Epsilon’s face, features barely disturbed by the sanctimonious quirk of his mouth, his matching intonation, basically everything about him saying upfront to Beeman,  _ I know what you think you know. But I’ll always know more. _

It evokes something in him, and not the blood-boiling indignance that it should. It should annoy him even more that he can’t quite place it.

He decides to settle on intrigued, in the end.

* * *

Epsilon turns out to be quite the curiosity. Beeman doesn’t usually bother investing himself too much in mysteries that don’t relate to his work, but with each encounter they have Epsilon ends up becoming more and more of an exception. He meets some of Epsilon’s other “People”, his fellow agents, but they seem to be cut from a different cloth as far as Beeman’s concerned, one of far less substance or quality. He almost can’t believe Epsilon managed to get one over on him sometimes, if these are really the best and brightest his organization can come up with. Then again, that’s probably why Epsilon seems to be something of the posterboy for them. He must, at least, appreciate the challenge Beeman seems to pose for him; if these are his ilk, Beeman can only imagine he must be dying of understimulation.

Considering Epsilon offers something of a challenge himself, Beeman does what any good scientist does: he observes, and he theorizes, and he analyzes the recurring patterns and then breaks them down into a list of defining characteristics. Epsilon probably doesn’t like to think that he has a pattern to him, that he can be characterized by an outsider, but for as much as he calls Beeman predictable he’s sadly fooling himself if he earnestly believes himself to be totally shrouded in mystery. He’s only human, afterall. Beeman is at  _ least _ seventy-five point-three-nine-times-repeating percent sure of this.

And more to the point, considering ‘UFO’ and ‘cover up’ end up going hand-in-hand, he’s afforded all kinds of opportunities to absorb data.

One encounter gives him lots of information, specifically surrounding Epsilon’s prosthetic. Normally he wouldn’t pay very much attention to such a thing, but Epsilon’s prosthetic is one of the more advanced Beeman has seen, clearly engineered by his People. If it has any functionality outside of that of a regular prosthetic, Beeman has yet to discover it, but it’s doubtful to him the metal is of any Earthly origin. It’s resistant to heat, non-magnetic, and surprisingly lightweight. To say nothing of how extremely durable it is. Beeman gets a first-hand demonstration of a number of those qualities-- but especially the last one-- when he and Epsilon are trapped in a failing escape pod together. He watches as the fingers of Epsilon’s metal hand dig into the red hot-metal overhead, ripping the sheet sealing them in away as easy as one would peel the top of a can back. He watches Epsilon’s face tense with the concentration, muscles in his jaw and the tendons of his neck flexing as the only indication of any strain against his efforts. They’re both pretty much unscathed, but Beeman takes the adrenaline home with him that night, has a hard time sleeping, more so than usual. He really should be thinking about the capabilities of Epsilon’s prosthetic, if he’s going to be thinking about Epsilon at all. He really shouldn’t be dwelling on the sharp, fast confidence his movements had as he ripped the metal of the pod back. He really shouldn’t be focusing on the look on his face.

He can reason it away. Paying extra attention to Epsilon’s face is necessary sometimes. He hardly gives away much in the way of body language, his face even less so, but the vague, impartial mask is prone to breaking, but it isn’t always obvious-- which is why Beeman’s extra scrutiny is justified. A great deal of expressing emotion comes from a person’s eyes and the area around it-- at least as far as it’s been explained to him in the past-- and Epsilon, like all his People, keeps his eyes and thus, his expression, as guarded as possible behind his thick, black lenses of his glasses. So far, Beeman’s seen Epsilon without his glasses on all but once; it’s after he just barely manages to catch Epsilon’s hand after he nearly falls out of a shuttle, hanging high in the stratosphere. Epsilon’s glasses go plummeting down below, and Beeman’s heart is fighting against the cage of his chest as he keeps Epsilon from falling, as he fights against the image of Epsilon plummeting down along with his glasses, landing in a broken, cold heap somewhere on the ground. And Beeman is left staring into eyes so cold and black that he can’t discern iris from pupil, deep and featureless as the pure, empty vacuum of space. There’s not even a scrap of light left for him to see his own face reflected back in, not that he needs that to have some awareness of how he must look right about now, knowing that if not for the tightest grip his sweaty hand can muster on Epsilon’s own, the man would be as good as dead. He can take some small comfort, at least, beyond the fact that he manages to pull Epsilon up and back onto secure, non-fatal ground, in the fact that he  _ swears  _ he sees some sliver of recognition in Epsilon’s eyes, if only for a split second. That’s all he needs to see, really, because he knows he didn’t imagine it.

Really Beeman is putting a lot more time and effort into doing this, cataloguing and scrutinizing Epsilon’s behavioral patterns, than may seem strictly logical, but he didn’t get this far in his field by having any self control or knowing when to call it quits, it was because no one else was going to painstakingly scan every second of grainy UFO sighting footage, and if no one else is going to keep a similar eye on Epsilon it just means once again the task has fallen to him. He’s heard some people speculating on what Epsilon is, exactly, even a few asking him if he’s figured out which galaxy the guy is from; proof that they’re not taking him (well, both of them) seriously. He knows others would disagree with him, point out the way Epsilon carries himself, his speech patterns and the way he scrutinizes things, as the clearest proof that he might not actually be completely human; but to Beeman, these are far from the strangest things about him. Beeman’s taught himself how to decipher codes, technologies, flight patterns, and even a handful of languages quite literally alien to this world, as well as the inner workings and social nuances of his fellow human beings, and he doesn’t especially care for that last one, finds it the most frustrating and useless at the best of times. He’s not surprised that Epsilon doesn’t seem to care for it, either. It works for the better between them, honestly; Epsilon has a logical motive behind what he does, not that he’s ever at the liberty to share what it is with Beeman, and he remains straightforward-- enough, provided it’s convenient for him to be. Beeman has to give some respect, even begrudging, to how he’s able to keep up with him, insofar as to even get a few steps ahead of him more than he’d like to admit. And he’s… intense. Beeman doesn’t think he’s met a more intense person ever in his life. His first thought was that it was just because of his job, but Beeman catches him at the tail-end of a briefing or two and even on Paul’s balcony at a party once, and finds that even without an agent at either flank or some objective to complete, Epsilon’s intensity never wavers.

Epsilon’s not predictable; he does a pretty good job at being the opposite, actually. Deceitful, withholding, and underhanded, sure. But he’s consistent. Knowing all this, it makes Beeman’s latest encounter with him strange.

It’s after they’ve wrapped up something of an unintentional joint mission off the coast of Ireland. Epsilon’s People are busy packing things away, scanning for anything they might’ve missed, already formulating possible cover up stories and contingencies and, hopefully, at least slightly more creative ways to “remind” Beeman what would happen if he should ever decide to open his mouth. Truth be told, Beeman's looking forward to putting the whole day behind him, disappointing waste of time as it was, especially now as he stands around drenched to the bone and freezing cold. Epsilon watches him as he shivers away, teeth chattering behind his lips as they turn blue, and Beeman watches him in turn as a subtle smile begins to work its way onto Epsilon’s face. Beeman’s willing the strength to tell him to shut up when Epsilon suddenly undoes the belt of his trenchcoat, opening it, and using it to help him wrap a strong arm around Beeman’s shoulders, pulling him against Epsilon’s side. He makes sure Beeman’s part of the coat is nestled suitably around him, keeping him sealed in and the cold air out.

He doesn’t know why, but for some reason he never thought of Epsilon as-- well-- he never imagined Epsilon giving off any sort of external temperature, hot or cold, just constantly at a perfect neutral. But as Beeman presses himself flush up against him, because he may as well do anything he can to stave off the cold while he’s in here, he finds Epsilon comfortably warm, solid. Human.

He knows there are eyes on them, which means Epsilon definitely knows as well. And the man is never careless. Beeman figures the gesture must not mean what he’s kind of secretly hoping it does, and allows his brain to idle for a few blissful moments, indulging himself anyways.

* * *

Epsilon is never careless. Or he didn’t used to be. He’s found himself under some bad influences lately.

Their paths continue to cross, as to be expected, and if Beeman acts especially unpleasant and uncooperative with Epsilon’s fellow gray men in the middle so there are less of them with him these days as they encounter each other, it’s a net positive, because too many extra bodies present just complicates things, and Epsilon’s really the only tolerable member of his organization insofar as Beeman can tell. Why not let them think he’s  _ Taming of the Shrew _ ’d him? It makes things all the more convenient on his end of things, and if Beeman is glad for the extra time alone with Epsilon, it’s not like he’d ever admit as much out loud. And ever since Epsilon’s gesture, Beeman feels like things have shifted between them, at least minutely. He knows he could quite possibly be making a fatal error, proving he’s not on Epsilon’s level, by exploiting this one little crack in the armor Epsilon’s given him for all that it’s worth. He’s still human, he tells himself. Both of them are. Some things are inevitable.

Beeman starts himself off small, little things here and there he’s near-certain he can get away with, gestures that would be easy to shrug off or explain away to any outside onlookers, let alone Epsilon himself. If their hands brush together here or there, it happens. If he gives Epsilon an indulgent smile and, amazingly, receives one in turn, then it’s clearly all a part of their constant mindgame. If Beeman starts to notice the difference between the automatic facsimile of a smile Epsilon gives others in an attempt to make himself more palatable to whoever he’s dealing with, with something more subtle, more sincere, near-anomalous, it’s because he’s doing his job right. And if something tightens in his chest at the thought that those smiles are reserved specifically for him, it’s nobody’s damn business. Not even his own.

Epsilon returns the gambit, though he’s not one to initiate much, he does what he must know he can get away with himself. The hand on Beeman’s lower back is to guide him. The hand around his wrist to pull him out of danger when Beeman’s too slow to move on his own. He can’t do much else, but it instills enough confidence in Beeman that he feels safe enough escalating-- afterall, he can get away with more. As much as Beeman hates to think of himself being viewed as a pawn, of Epsilon’s people exploiting this… thing… they have, against either of them, he can’t seem to help himself when the opportunity arises. And a hand on his shoulder or a bump to his side is perfectly innocent enough.

Beeman’s been feeling pretty self-assured lately, though, even as he crawls out from the cover he was taking and straightens himself back up to come face to face with a slightly ruffled looking Epsilon, who’d just finished scattering-- well, something to be identified, considering neither of them are fully sure of what just happened yet-- with that creepy sonic collar of his. Beeman really needs to think of a way to get it off him someday. So he can take it apart and study it, and not so he can get an unobstructed view of Epsilon’s bare throat.

“If I didn’t know any better,” He says to Epsilon, looking him up and down, noting that one could almost assume he’s a bit out of breath. “I’d think I just saw something finally catch you off guard.”

“Is that so?” Epsilon knows he’s teasing him. By now Beeman’s seen him get injured on the job more times than his People probably want anybody knowing. “I’d assumed you couldn’t see much from your position. Fetal, yes?”

That shouldn’t make Beeman grin, to have the ball volleyed back into his court like that, but by now Epsilon has seen he’s far better at authenticating spacecraft than strongmaning his way through any problems out in the field. “Well I know how much you like playing Big Shot.”

And before giving it the appropriate amount of thought, Beeman’s hands are on the folds of Epsilon’s shirt collar, tugging them back up and over his sonic one, palms going flat as he smooths it back down. “Shall we press on,” His fingers close around the smooth fabric of Epsilon’s tie, tugging it just slightly, back into proper place. “Agent?”

He lets his hand linger for one more second, one more beat of Epsilon going silent, expression inscrutable as always, before he starts walking forward. Epsilon follows him just another moment after that, and Beeman hopes he can’t somehow tell the way his stomach is twisting into knots as he imagines what could’ve happened if he’d left his hand around Epsilon’s tie for another second too long.

* * *

They kiss. Or, really, he kisses Epsilon.

He’s in Barcelona, looking into strange, triangulating light patterns, and he doesn’t really expect Epsilon to be there because he’s been keeping track of where his People show up as well as where they never seem to, and he’d thought the area might’ve landed in their mysterious “we can’t touch” zone. Honestly it’s hard to remember most of what happens that day, aside from the fact that things, as they often do with Epsilon there, start escalating from ‘simple and routine’ to ‘fast-approaching near-death experience’. Except this time it’s not Beeman tempting fate.

It’s hard to track what, exactly, happens, as fast as it happens. All he knows is that he’s lost sight of Epsilon and suddenly something comes hurtling to the ground, igniting in flame when it does, and Beeman’s far away enough that the heat shouldn’t register and the smog shouldn’t smell as strong as it does to him, and he definitely shouldn’t be moving towards it, but he knows by now the look and make of the things Epsilon’s People are responsible for building and he had it dead to rights. And he thinks about how many times Epsilon’s somehow managed to cheat death against all odds, and how eventually everyone’s luck runs out, especially since luck isn’t real, and if Epsilon could somehow hear his thoughts he’d definitely be disappointed in how ridiculous and melodramatic they are right now, but he can’t help it. The flashes of Epsilon as a charred lump of flesh, or worse, pulpy splatters streaked on the ground, or even  _ worse _ , of there being nothing left of him, makes Arthur feel suddenly very small and cold and completely helpless.

And then a figure emerges, dark against the backdrop of the wreckage, trudging into view. He can see it’s Epsilon, all in one piece, worse for wear with a few fresh nicks and bruises and maybe a black spot or two on his clothes, one of the lenses of his glasses popped out, but upright, whole, and alive. Whatever light feeling that starts to lift all the earlier weight off of his shoulders is crushed right back down as he suddenly seems to realize for a moment the brief reality he existed in where Epsilon was  _ dead _ . There was almost a world where Epsilon had died thinking Arthur had only viewed him as a colleague at best, or some passing puzzle or mystery to briefly entertain himself with at worst. And that world is completely unacceptable to him. He swiftly rejects it, with the only thing he can seem to think to do. He kisses Epsilon with everything he’s got, hoping it can say everything he doesn’t have the right words or the courage to tell him with outloud.

Epsilon doesn’t kiss back. He stands there, lips unmoving, hands completely still at his sides, and any usual pride Arthur would feel at being somehow able to blindside him is readily evaporated into nothingness by the violent, burning shame of feeling like a total fuck up, knowing he’s made a fool out of himself, without any contingency plan or way to immediately self destruct. He can’t even look at Epsilon when he pulls away. He feels all the more pathetic for the way he makes his retreat, just the final flashing neon sign to him that he’s a coward, and they’ve both been wasting their time.

He’s fully content to never talk about it, never bring it up or give any sort of hint to Epsilon that he acknowledges that it happened, to keep things so professional between them Epsilon won’t even recognize him and it’ll be like they can start over as new people. For a moment he thinks that’s what they’re doing, but Epsilon manages to get him all by himself, the two of them out of earshot and eyeshot. Before Beeman can locate his nearest escape route, though, Epsilon surprises him.

“May I kiss you?”

He’s not shy, that’s not the right word for it. Cautious, maybe, certainly perfectly diplomatic. If Arthur weren’t so relieved, he’d half the mind to tease him about it, try to get him to loosen up about the whole thing, but as it stands he just manages to nod dumbly before meeting Epsilon as he leans down to accommodate his height. It’s mutually assured destruction, in its most awkward and chaste form. For once Epsilon doesn’t seem to have any clue what he’s doing, standing stock still with his hands formally at his sides, and his lips are chapped and rough, just on the side of unpleasant. It’s not a very good kiss, Arthur decides, and that should probably be a saving grace, a good excuse to cut this whole thing off at the lack of chemistry. But that’s not true; there’s a stupid giddiness that builds in his stomach, refusing to diminish even as they break away and Epsilon pretty much just reverts back to business as usual. He’ll just need more practice. So Arthur gives him plenty of opportunities to do so.

He has to admit, Epsilon adapts quickly. As much as he keeps up his professional, detached front, it’s pretty glaringly obvious to Arthur that he wants to, for lack of a better term, succeed at kissing him. He never initiates the contact, but when he seems absolutely certain it’s really just the two of them, no other agents or secret scientists or bugs, he’ll put up a very gentlemanly request. One time he even decides to haltingly put one of his arms around Arthur, so Arthur figures it’s alright to move away from their usual chaste pecks and kiss him more insistently. And to his surprise, Epsilon seems prepared for it; very like him, Arthur thinks, to have a plan already set up, in case Arthur should decide to start actively making out with him. He doesn’t expect Epsilon to be the type to part his lips at Arthur’s barest prodding, however.

That’s the thing he thinks he really likes about Epsilon. Learning something new about him is never boring.

* * *

They don’t ever have dates. Not really. Epsilon is never anywhere without it being on business, save for the few times Doc or Drew somehow manage to dupe him into appearing at an actual social event. Arthur suspects he sticks around because he respects that he’s been caught. He can relate; if he and Miranda didn’t have each other as established plus-ones for any suspiciously vague invite the Saturdays extend to either of them, he shudders to think of the things he might endure.

The lack of any formal dates doesn’t bother him, though. Really he sort of prefers it. He hadn’t exactly thrived on any of the few dates he’d been on in recent memory, or any of them, ever, if he really thought about it, but certainly to no fault of his own. Staring down the other person and working around circles of stalling small talk were supposed to accomplish what, exactly? He can’t exactly picture Epsilon on the other end of a candle lit dinner, either. What they manage to have is working out fine for them. Arthur supposes really the only benefit a date would offer that he actually would want is an excuse to see Epsilon alone, outside of the pretense of work.

He tries to pitch something maybe closer to a date, arrange some kind of rendezvous, but Epsilon never takes the bait. He guesses it makes sense for Epsilon to plainly shoot him down in public, when they’re supposed to be acting professional with each other, but he has to admit; when he sends him a few (encrypted) messages, asking for his assist on peculiar light patterns that he knows that  _ Epsilon  _ will know he can handle just fine on his own, he’s disappointed that Epsilon responds to his offer by pointing out that his skillset isn’t required, and he’d maybe have more success asking Dr. Grey or Dr. Cheveyo for help. Not offended or hurt, because he understands. But much more disappointed than he was anticipating.

He just has to content himself to getting time alone with Epsilon through happenstance, or otherwise sneaking around, when there’s a good opportunity to do it. It’s never long enough for Arthur’s taste, but Epsilon keeps coming back and indulging him every time, so that must mean their… what, mutually beneficial relationship? Seems to be going fine. It’s been a little over two years now since they’ve started the whole song and dance and Arthur doesn’t really have a name for it yet, but he doesn’t seem to be jeopardizing it, and he doesn’t feel like it’ll just randomly crumble into dust when he’s not looking. So he’ll count it as a win.

* * *

Fifty people go into Argost’s lair, Weird World, and only seven of them make it out alive. Doc sets up and pays for the headstone, after it’s absolutely clear that Paul’s going to pull through after all, and Beeman doesn’t know what it is that possesses him to visit it. He doesn’t need a fancy hunk of rock to tell him everyone who’s missing, the sacrifice they ended up making; he can feel it, with each passing day he can feel it, and he doesn’t know what and how he still manages to cry for because everybody left’s done all the crying they can do. And just what exactly does it change, if he cries? He can stand here and think about how somehow, out of fifty of the smartest, most skilled people he’s ever known, he’s here and they’re gone; he can stew around and think about how unfair it all is, but at the end of the day, that’s life. He can cry all he wants. No amount of tears for him or anybody else is going to make it any more fair, is going to bring anybody back. Is going to change the fact that Argost is still out there, with a spot on prime time television no less, showing off that house of horrors like it’s a cheap amusement park attraction, without anybody knowing what really happened there.

When he’s at the headstone, he figures he’ll be ready to head back out by the time anybody else might show up, nobody there to try to talk to him about what happened. There’s nothing left to say, as far as he’s concerned. The last person he expects to see there is Epsilon.

They don’t say anything, just stand together in heavy silence, as Epsilon reads the names. Beeman stopped going over them a while ago, fixed numb at the spot where he stands, but he’s thankful that Epsilon doesn’t bring up how red his eyes are or how splotchy his face must look. Whatever Epsilon must think of him, of any of what’s happened, any of the people whose names are carved in the stone, or of what any of them are supposed to do now, Beeman can’t tell. So he gives up, and he looks away.

“Kane,” Epsilon suddenly breaks the silence, voice choked, quiet enough that for a moment Beeman doesn’t think he heard him right. He questions if he actually said anything at all, when Beeman looks at his face, carefully steady, and wonders if the grief is making him hear things.

“What?”

Epsilon takes off his glasses, exposed. “My name,” He says. “It’s Kane.”

“Oh.” Arthur looks at him, for just a moment, before stepping closer. He thinks he gets what Epsilon is trying to tell him, show him. He hopes he does. “I’ll remember that.”

He expects that to be it, maybe, but there’s obviously some sort of breath trapped in Epsilon’s chest, holding him taut like a band about to snap, as he turns his gaze, somewhat glazed and unfocused now, back to the headstone. He keeps going.

“It means battle, or warrior. Arthur, Arthur means king. Nobility.” Arthur doesn’t know how to respond, for once unable to think of anything to say. So Epsilon continues, picking names from the memorial. “Raymond means wise,” another, “Wojciech, someone, someone happy in battle,” And Arthur’s never heard him like this before, almost shaky, almost-- sad-- “Francis could mean Frenchman, or free man--”

“Epsilon,” Arthur grips his shoulder. Squeezes it lightly, lowers his voice to something almost private, even though they’re the only two here. “Kane. Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He seems to breathe again, finally. He slides his glasses back on, and then looks to Arthur. “I didn’t know them…”

* * *

He doesn’t worry at first, when the months go by, with no sign of or word from Epsilon. It’s not so unusual; Epsilon answers first and foremost to his People, and whoever  _ they  _ answer to is unclear, and Arthur figures without any affiliation to any one word government or organization that gives them a pretty wide net cast over what they consider to be in their jurisdiction. Plenty all over the world to keep a guy busy, not much time to come visit or respond to simple, low-priority messages. Arthur has his own attention split between his usual work, checking in with Paul while he’s pulling through the last remnants of his physical therapy, and the occasional visits to the Saturdays when they’re overwhelmed and Miranda’s sister is too busy spelunking halfway across the world to come down and lend a hand.

But since there’s only seven of them left, they’ve been keeping in much closer contact than before, and everybody gets a little antsy when there’s a face not present and accounted for. Soon it comes out that  _ nobody’s  _ seen Epsilon, received any word from him, and it’s no surprise if anyone manages to run into a member of his organization they don’t say anything about him, if they say anything at all. Arthur lets himself get a little worried now, though he knows so far this is only slightly out of the ordinary, and there’s sure to be a perfectly good reason for it. Epsilon will be back out of the blue any day now and he’ll make some cryptic, unsettling comment about how he noticed how all of them had missed him, and things will get back into step.

Days continue to go by, turning into weeks. Arthur starts messaging Epsilon more and more frequently, more than just video calls or simple messages, but radioing him, encrypted notes and transmissions. He never gets a response back. Weeks turn into months, and suddenly a full year has gone by and Epsilon’s just vanished. Seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth.

He tries to keep it together, but it’s hard not to feel sick as his brain races with every horrible scenario it can conjure. Epsilon might be dead. Killed, somehow, during a mission, or maybe somebody working for Argost thought he was a useful connection to the Kur stone until he wasn’t, or worse-- what if, somehow, it was his own People. Guilt starts constrict him, ice cold and suffocating, and it has to be ridiculous, surely they wouldn’t eliminate their best man over a little ill-advised workplace romance, if they even knew to begin with. But Arthur’s biggest problem has always been that he thinks he’s just so smart, and this whole time he’s been fooling himself into thinking that he hadn’t got caught up in sneaking behind everyone’s backs like star-crossed teenagers, and he thought that they just couldn’t get caught because between the two of them they could always stay one step ahead.

He spills his guts to Miranda about it; he really doesn’t mean to, but he’s trying to get his mind off of it and everything else that’s happened in the last handful of years, dragging himself around to any corner of the Earth that might have a sliver of an excuse for him to completely throw himself into his work without resurfacing. Unfortunately it’s worked a little too well, grinding him down, and he makes a complete and total idiot of himself in front of her, pitching a fit when his equipment breaks and then immediately deflating after it saps the energy out of him. All she has to do is put a hand on his shoulder and ask him what this is  _ really  _ about before it comes tumbling out of him, more raw than he wants it to be.

She holds him through it. That’s nice. Admittedly neither of them are the hugging it out type, and it’s really strange and awkward, but her parka is heavy and warm and soft where he digs his fingers into it, holding him up as his legs shake.

“It isn’t your fault,” She tells him.

“I know,” And he hates how thick his voice is. But it’s just her here, and she wouldn’t rat him out. “But I-- it’s nice, to have a second opinion.”

She’s worried about him, he thinks, but honestly for now, he thinks this is all the sympathy and openness and, whatever else about this that comes so naturally to other people and not to him, that he can take. He packs up his broken equipment when they’re done and he heads back to Nazca.

Even with that, the guilt still lingers, but it’s more of a dull ache than anything so present. He lets it fade away, more and more, the longer and more obvious it becomes that Epsilon is never coming back. It’s in everyone’s best interest that he moves on anyways, especially his own, so that’s just what he does. He replaces whatever it was he thought he was feeling piece by piece, and he does it by himself, so he doesn’t run the possible risk of this happening to him again. And then Epsilon is squarely in his past; a lesson he had to learn the hard way. Maybe one day Beeman won’t be so dense, so that the hard way is the only way he’ll ever learn.

* * *

About a decade after Epsilon’s strange and sudden disappearance, the Saturdays send something of a memo out to the rest of them. Epsilon, and therefore, his people, are back, which means they can expect them to be keeping tabs on everyone who associates as a Secret Scientist. Not that they probably still weren’t in the last eleven or so years, but at least they’re back out of the woodwork.

Beeman wants to be furious. At Epsilon, for “retiring”, whatever that means, without a word to him or anybody else; at Epsilon’s People, to keep it less personal. Really he’s just furious at himself for feeling anything at the news, the slightest, complicated and muddle stab of adrenaline that cuts through his heart, no matter how fleeting. He refuses to let it get any further than that, though. If he and Epsilon happen to encounter each other, that can be a problem for a different Beeman, on a different day.

Now, he is that Beeman, and today is that day.

He’s not getting distracted, because this is serious, three of their colleagues are in the hospital and the sole leads they’ve got have run off, making amuck who knows where. He thought he’d been holding it together fairly well despite how strange he felt, seeing Epsilon’s face, alive and in person, for the first time in years; he’s surrounded by a small gaggle of his people, though, and Miranda’s with him, filling him in on the situation, so he’s got the perfect buffer both not to interact with or spare much thought for Epsilon. Until Epsilon moves, and Beeman can see from behind him that he’s got a  _ kid _ .

He’s not distracted, which is also why he didn’t  _ miss _ the detail of Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s glowing green eyes when Doc points it out to him, it just wasn’t worth noting otherwise. He’s not working the numbers out in his head about how the kid-- Francis he thinks his name is-- is roughly around Zak’s age, about eleven years. The math does not work out in Beeman’s favor, particularly, and even though the situation is pretty dire he’s sort of thankful for once that everything breaks out into a fight and then otherwise goes to hell, because it means he doesn’t have to focus on whatever he’s feeling. That maybe this whole time, he really just was some passing indulgence to Epsilon, an experiment, some kind of means to an unseen end. He’s not focusing on that, he’s focusing on making sure Parisian tourists don’t turn to splatters on the ground.

It’s almost too bad when the problem fixes itself. Almost, obviously, because it’s good to know they don’t actually have to worry about having the Saturdays as enemies. But Epsilon and his people are still around, and Beeman sort of drove them here. He should have really thought that through.

Miranda strands him, to go continue to make amends with Doc and Drew and explain herself further, and yes logically, obviously, he understands, she’s been having a tough time ever since they found out Abbey’s been exploiting their resources and who knows what else to cash in the biggest payday she can get under Van Rook, but Epsilon’s other agents are spread out away from him right now and he’s feeling really tempted to walk over to where the guy is standing, just, right there, next to his mystery son, and maybe end up making a scene, and he could really use the impulse control right about now.

Epsilon beats him to the punch, though, because he comes to him. With his son in tow, and everything. Beeman can’t begin to fathom why he would do this. He’s supposed to be the professional here, Beeman’s just an expert.

“I didn’t have time to properly introduce you,” Epsilon says, hand on the boy’s shoulders. “This is my son, Francis. Greet the doctor, Francis.”

Francis looks at Beeman, or maybe through him. He really is Epsilon’s spitting image. It’s almost creepy. “Greeted.”

“Yeah… Hi.” Beeman’s not great with kids at the best of times, but this is a nightmare unto its own. He tries to hold onto every bitter feeling that was dredging up earlier, looking at the kid, maybe he should just start throwing accusations as to who the other parent is right in front of him. That’d certainly burn the bridge. But it’s not the kid’s fault, and even Beeman, of all people, recognizes the cruelty of that. His eyes slide back to Epsilon. He really should’ve done this when they were all playing house arrest, with more plausible deniability. “Actually, Agent… is there something I could discuss with you?” He gives a slight nod to the kid. “Alone.”

He waits for Epsilon to tell him something like, how anything he could say in front of him, he could say in front of his son, or any other equally annoyingly sensible thing that will stall what Beeman’s trying to do. But something in his tone must convince him, because even though his face remains carefully guarded, he nods, then turns to his son.

“Francis, go find Agent Axiom at the northwest perimeter, and observe. I’m sure she’ll give you plenty of insight on crowd control. I will come to retrieve you once Dr. Beeman and I are finished here. Understood?”

“Yes, dad,” Francis answers, but he doesn’t seem happy about it. Beeman can feel him giving him the stink eye, even from behind his glasses, before he walks off.

When he’s far enough to be just on the edge of Epsilon’s sight, Epsilon returns his attention back to Beeman. “This will be very suspicious if anyone else notices,” He says, before Beeman can get a word in first. “Don’t you agree?”

Beeman chooses not to answer. “What happened?”

“It seems the Saturdays were telling the truth,” Epsilon says. “An alternate shadow dimension. You must be very excited. Another fringe theory, confirmed.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Beeman keeps himself from scowling. “What happened to you?”

“I was aware the news of my retirement has since become common knowledge.”

“Don’t try to parrot back some lazy cover-up story at me,” Beeman presses on, keeping his voice low. “You disappeared off the face of the entire planet, for  _ eleven years _ . Kane,” He wills his voice to be even quieter, somehow, and maybe gentler around the edges than he would like to admit, as he uses Epsilon’s first name. “Where were you?”

This, at least, manages to break past some small part of Epsilon’s stalwart veneer of stoicism, just under the skin. He shakes his head.

Beeman wants to mad, he wishes desperately that he was mad, instead of the sudden, unfair, drop of dread that weighs down his stomach. “...Are you safe,” He says, suddenly, eyeing where Francis is standing next to Expendable Agent Number Three. “With these people?”

“Arthur--”   
  


“Yes or no.”   
  


“Yes,” Epsilon answers. He doesn’t hesitate, but Arthur still can’t bring himself to completely believe him.

“Are you happy?” He asks, suddenly, the thought a surprise to himself.

“Personal feelings don’t factor into it. You know that.”

Arthur doesn’t hold his scowl back anymore. “Well maybe, for once, they should, considering nobody could find out what even happened to you for an entire  _ eleven  _ **_years_ ** , in case you forgot--”

“I am an indispensable asset to my people!” Epsilon’s voice doesn’t raise, because that would draw attention to them, but his tone is forceful in a way that Beeman’s afraid it’ll echo throughout all of Paris. “And you are  _ not _ !”

Beeman can’t think of what to say, looking stupidly into the near-ferocious expression on Epsilon’s face. His silence seems to bring him back to himself, and Beeman thinks for a moment, hopes, his features will soften back out, but they don’t. They remain hard and cold as stone, an immovable mask of apathy.

“Stop trying to get involved.”

He won’t have to tell him twice.

* * *

Beeman’s lab is in pieces, as he watches Zak get into a plane with V.V. Argost, and he knows, watching Doc make his own mistake before any of the rest of them can talk some sense into him, that it’s do or die.

The whole cryostasis thing was a band-aid fix, something that became glaringly obvious to him since the encounter with the last member of the Legion of Garuda. They can arm wherever they’re planning to keep little Kur-to-Be to the teeth, but what is it going to hold up against in the face of not only Argost, but a fanatic army of monster snake people? It’s not that he  _ wants  _ to use the Flute. It’s just that everybody is refusing to be completely logical, objective about this, like they’ve forgotten everything that Argost has already taken away from them, how he had managed to do it  _ without  _ the power of Kur on his side. If he’s the last person standing who knows he has to do what has to be done, well. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once the world is safe, everybody will see he was right.

* * *

That kind of thinking gets him three cracked ribs, internal bleeding, and the loss of the only people he has left in his life he could’ve maybe at one point considered friends.

Admittedly, he gets worse, before he makes any progress. He’s not completely excommunicated from the Secret Scientists, because as Doc and Drew have just recently felt, their resource pool is small and he’s unfortunately a leading expert, who can be helpful if he doesn’t feel like going full judge, jury, and executioner again. That doesn’t make anybody eager to reach out to him. And at first, he thinks: fine. He doesn’t need anybody. He never has.

The months that trudge along, as the world keeps turning, no Cryptid Apocalypse, no real  _ anything _ , outside of a depressing change in status quo, will prove him laughably wrong. All the holing up and retreating into himself will give him plenty of time to replay not only what he did, but Miranda’s last words to him as he did so. And the way that he answered her. Beeman’s always thought that he’s just so smart, that he can’t be wrong, that what he thought and what he was doing couldn’t fail him, that whatever consequences have to be worth it. And where has that gotten him now? Not just his actions, but the fact that he just had to be so  _ smug  _ about it.

He’s never been the best at making amends, but the general rule that he knows that your own pride isn’t supposed to factor into it, so he pushes down knowing he won’t be forgiven, and he tries. And it’s… well, it’s registered. That’s better than he thought it would be. He knows it’s not likely he’ll ever be friends with these people again, but at least he’s graduated back up to colleague. If things are cold and clinical, if his mere presence is regarded with tension and suspicion, well, it’s not like he doesn’t know  _ why _ . Zak died for three seconds, at the hand of a weapon Beeman made. It’s going to take him a lot longer than that to do anything to start to make up for it.

* * *

It’s over three years after everything that happened with the Cryptid War. Beeman’s in his lab when his security system picks up something trudging through his field of satellite dishes, towards his base. He thinks it might be some kind of wandering mountain animal or something that’s tripped a sensor somehow, when he actually checks his screen, noting that it’s definitely a person. When he enhances, he finally finds out just who.

He feels clumsy, as he drags himself outside, out into the cold night air, to see with his own two eyes Epsilon, who had been moving towards the Hive with, purpose suddenly stall at Beeman’s emergence. His glasses are gone, and the left sleeve of his trenchcoat is flat and loose because his prosthetic is missing, but more alarming than even that the whole back of his coat is drenched and rusty with blood. A million things flash through his mind as he takes the sight in front of him in, so surreal for just a moment he’s worried he might be dreaming. Some sixteen years ago, Beeman would’ve let him in without hesitation, without a thought spared to what he might be getting himself into by doing so, knowing to Epsilon’s People he’d be little more than collateral, and not caring. How often, throughout the years, he berated that version of himself; far from an optimistic, far from a bleeding heart, but one with a working heart at all. He thought he was so careless, so stupid, blind to the pure objectivity that whatever he felt about Epsilon, anything between them was doomed to fail. If there’s a test to see if there’s some shred of that version of him left, now, after everything, this might be it.

He brings himself to Epsilon’s side, on his left, supporting him where his left arm is gone. “What happened to your prosthetic,” He asks, helping Epsilon move forward.

“It was traceable. I had to get rid of it.”

“And the blood?”

To Arthur’s surprise and, admittedly, concern, Epsilon smiles at him almost sheepishly. “You’ll think this was… imbecilic,” He huffs. “But I had to cut it out.”

“Cut what out? Where?”

“My tracking chip. The incision was an inch deep, at the base of my skull,” He coughs. “It looks worse than it is…”

Somehow, Arthur doubts it, but he’s able to get Epsilon inside without getting blacked out on. Epsilon is trying very hard to prove that he’s still completely functional, fumbling one-handed at the belt of his trenchcoat, until Arthur tugs his hand away and undoes it for him, helping him out of his coat. He undoes his tie, next, and then, because this is no time to be shy and force Epsilon to contend with all his buttons, his shirt, until he’s down to his compression tank top. Epsilon sits down almost robotically afterwards, as Arthur retrieves his medical kit.

He cleans the blood off the back of his neck, some of it crusted over it, some of it still jarringly red, disinfects it when it appears to him as a muted break in Epsilon’s skin. He focuses on threading the needle, so he doesn’t have to think about what was laying under there, all this time, of Epsilon being tagged like a dog. Epsilon is silent the whole way through, no reaction to the needle as it pierces through, as the sutures mend the flesh back together. He’s not any sort of medical expert, but Arthur is beginning to worry that he might have gone into shock.

When Arthur finishes tying up the final thread, cuts it, he speaks up again, perhaps the meekest he’s ever heard him. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur has a lot that he could say, that he wants to say, to do. But it doesn’t seem like the right time for any of it. “Don’t mention it.”   
  


He comes back around, so he can speak to Epsilon face to face, and with his aura of control gone, he looks… sad. Feeble, despite his build.

“Why…” Arthur starts falsely. “What happened?”

“Francis escaped, two weeks ago. Cut out his tracking chip, just as I had. I don’t know how long he’d been planning to leave. He never gave any indication,” Epsilon sounded almost proud, just for a moment. “I woke up, and he was gone. It became clear that our People wanted him brought in, at… any cost.”

“Why didn’t you leave together?”

“I’m sure he thought I would’ve reported him for having mutinous thoughts. I likely would have.”

“Mutinous thoughts?” Arthur echoes. “What are you saying? Didn’t you retire?”

Epsilon’s face suddenly contorts, fist clenching, before it settles back out, leaving him looking tired again. “It’s not that simple, unfortunately. Francis is a clone.” He seems reluctant, almost nervous to add, “As am I.”

He’s surprised, but admittedly, only slightly, just for a moment. It explains a lot, in a terrible way. “A clone of who?”

“Our perfect agent,” he says. “They found him, some one hundred years ago. They’ve been repeating him ever since.”

“Epsilon,” Arthur says all of a sudden, realizing striking him. “Fifth in the set.”

“Francis was supposed to become… Stigma, some day,” Epsilon agrees. “Then it would be up to him to train his replacement.”

He always knew there had to be a reason Epsilon’s leash was seemingly tighter than any of his fellow agents. He just never guessed, never imagined, what the cost of being the best of them was. “The kid made the right decision,” He tells him. He tries not to double-guess himself as he brings his hand hand to Epsilon’s cheek. “And so did you.”

Epsilon stares at him intently, before almost cautiously allowing himself to lean into the touch. “I understand the position I’ve put you in,” He shuts his eyes, and Arthur has to fight against a lump in his throat suddenly. “Just give me a night to rest. I’ll be gone before they look for me.”

“No!” The force behind his own voice startles him, hand tipping Epsilon’s head up insistently to meet his gaze. “Don’t be stupid. You won’t make it twenty miles out of here, let alone to the nearest town. You’re going to stay put until we can think of something.”

“Arthur--”

“No running off,” He insists. “No disappearing. You aren’t going out there alone. I’m not letting you.”

Epsilon leans forwards, resting his hand gently on Arthur’s bicep. “You’re painting a target on your back,” He says softly. “With my blood.”

“I know.” Arthur brings his other hand to Epsilon’s face, holding him there, with a gentleness he forgot he’d ever had. Epsilon’s own hand slides down Arthur’s arm, coming to cuff around his wrist loosely, as the admission Arthur had just made was some sort of permission he’d been waiting on, to press his face fully against the cup of Arthur’s palm, shoulders slackening. “Stop trying to change my mind. It’s not gonna work.”

Epsilon hums his peculiar little laugh, smiles his reserved smile, and closes his eyes again. “So stubborn,” He murmurs. “As always.”

Arthur huffs a laugh, a quick sigh through his nose, bittersweet at the unfortunately true summation of his character. Maybe with Epsilon here, his stubbornness can actually count for something. It’s easy to fleetingly hope so, with the weight of Epsilon’s cheek pressed in the cradle of his hand, skin rough and pale but still so warm, solid. Human.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are super, super appreciated, especially considering the extremely narrow net im casting, lol. id love to hear if i actually got anybody reading to seriously ship this <:]


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